Today kicks off the spring El Pout fishing weekend. Big Guy and about 20 buddies will fish Friday and Saturday at a lake on the Missouri-Arkansas border. Sunday, they return home with dirty laundry, muddy shoes and stories they aren't going to share. Twice, Big Guy left the house this morning. First time, he remembered he remembered his fishing gear. Second time, he remembered his work backpack. It seems that Big Guy forgot he is working one-half day before splitting town.
I look forward to my twice yearly El Pout weekends. The flurry of scooting Big Guy out the door takes me back to the first day of kindergarten for Daisy and then Birdie. Without fail, Big Guy is nearly that excited every time he departs on this fishing trip. And I know that when he returns, he will be a more relaxed, less stressed mate. Big Guy works hard. This weekend with his work buddies and a few other guys gives him a chance to play hard, too.
This time, my El Pout weekend is extra special. Daisy's music sorority is hosting a Mom's Weekend in Columbia, Mo. Sis flies in from Atlanta and then she and I will drive together to Columbia and camp at Daisy's apartment. Birdie will drive up from Fayetteville, Ark. Without fish, water or mud, the four of us will play and feel the pleasure of being with good friends.
On Sunday, we will hug each other hard, pledge to do it again and return to our responsibilities. We won't create a pile of laundry as massive as the one Big Guy creates; neither will mud cake our shoes. But we will have stories and they won't be ones for sharing.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Thursday, April 17, 2014
To Lunch With Daisy
Daisy likes to circle back. She will drop an idea at my feet, let it sit awhile and then follow up to see how what she wants compares to what I'm willing to do. If my thoughts aren't aligned with hers, she circles around a few times more and rechecks to see if I've fixed my thinking.
So when Daisy suggested that I meet her for lunch, I knew I would be dining with Daisy. I'd made the overall vague lunching offer four years ago when she committed to attend the University of Missouri. "It's close enough that I can come for lunch!," I declared. And those words didn't scare her to a more distant school.
Truly, I don't see Daisy often. I did want to do lunch. I didn't want to drive two hours one way to lunch in Columbia, then drive two hours back. So I proposed that Daisy drive my way 30 minutes on Interstate 70 and I'd drive her way an hour and a half. We'd meet in Kingdom City.
A traffic jam derailed the simplicity of my plan. Thirty minutes from Daisy, my Escape crawled on the highway, I crept one and a half miles until the next exit. Then I drove a narrow paved ditch-lined road, through the wooded hills, dips, curves and small towns that prove why in Missouri trees and memories of trees are valued over straight pathways.
An hour and a half late, I met Daisy for lunch. I drove three hours to get there. Never have I wolfed down a pancake at Denny's as fast as the one I demolished at 2:45 that afternoon. In the nearly empty restaurant, we touched base with each other, good conversation between two women.
All too soon, lunch ended. Daisy had a volunteer children's choir practice to lead. I had St. Louis rush hour to face. With reluctance, we hugged and went our opposite ways on I-70. The other side of the interstate, I could see, was still blocked. What I'd missed witnessing before--the wreck of a tractor trailer--lay visible. Someone didn't make lunch, I thought. And my lunch with Daisy was so good.
www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com: This woman is far too unlucky for me to stand near during a thunderstorm, I thought.
So when Daisy suggested that I meet her for lunch, I knew I would be dining with Daisy. I'd made the overall vague lunching offer four years ago when she committed to attend the University of Missouri. "It's close enough that I can come for lunch!," I declared. And those words didn't scare her to a more distant school.
Truly, I don't see Daisy often. I did want to do lunch. I didn't want to drive two hours one way to lunch in Columbia, then drive two hours back. So I proposed that Daisy drive my way 30 minutes on Interstate 70 and I'd drive her way an hour and a half. We'd meet in Kingdom City.
A traffic jam derailed the simplicity of my plan. Thirty minutes from Daisy, my Escape crawled on the highway, I crept one and a half miles until the next exit. Then I drove a narrow paved ditch-lined road, through the wooded hills, dips, curves and small towns that prove why in Missouri trees and memories of trees are valued over straight pathways.
An hour and a half late, I met Daisy for lunch. I drove three hours to get there. Never have I wolfed down a pancake at Denny's as fast as the one I demolished at 2:45 that afternoon. In the nearly empty restaurant, we touched base with each other, good conversation between two women.
All too soon, lunch ended. Daisy had a volunteer children's choir practice to lead. I had St. Louis rush hour to face. With reluctance, we hugged and went our opposite ways on I-70. The other side of the interstate, I could see, was still blocked. What I'd missed witnessing before--the wreck of a tractor trailer--lay visible. Someone didn't make lunch, I thought. And my lunch with Daisy was so good.
www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com: This woman is far too unlucky for me to stand near during a thunderstorm, I thought.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Sink, Float, Listen
Big Guy dug a pond for me and I slipped my mosquito fish into the water. After two days of marveling at their stillness, I figured out they were dead. Unlike goldfish carcasses that float, this pair of dead gambusia sank to the bottom, companionably near one another in their watery grave.
Big Guy was out of town when the gambusia died. That gave me plenty of time to restock with feeder goldfish. They are my go-to fish--cramped together in aquariums earmarked for tiny starter fish bowls belonging to proud children who will forget them after a day and go back to whining for a puppy. (The dead fish, one week later, being proof they aren't ready for a puppy.)
I don't over think where to procure feeder goldfish. Neither do I expect most of them to survive very long. On this day, I went to the Wal-Mart on St. Charles Rock Road. This store at this location reminds me of feeder goldfish. It serves a part of St. Louis where success is measured in touchable, feel-able steps like keeping your kid in high school, planning a summer trip to Six Flags and throwing a few tomatoes in the ground and hoping it's not too early.
I'm not always comfortable at this Wal-Mart. I don't like how the security guard so visibly patrols the parking lot in his car. And the cars in the parking lot bear wear, lots of wear. Even before I park and enter the store, I worry--what if a ragamuffin car backs into my car and the driver doesn't have insurance?
On that day, my thinking felt wrong and dripped with a smattering of racism. Then intentional listening stepped in to change me.
I have tried hard this year to be fully engaged in the conversations that I have--even in the polite back and forth with strangers. As I approached the fish tanks at the back of the Wal-Mart, I noticed the young man stocking the tanks. I didn't see a person--I saw cornrowed-hair and slouching khaki pants with ravel-edged pockets. I felt relief that he was there, and I didn't have to find someone to scoop 38-cent fish.
The worker talked fish as he scooped. I wanted about 20 of them. I said, "You know a lot about fish." He answered, "It's been three years and I'm still learning."
And with those words, for the very first time, I saw him. This person likes the fish; he is a learner and for three years, he has been learning about fish.
Intentional listening took me outside myself and, for a moment, I met someone I didn't know. I bought 25 feeder goldfish and turned them loose in the pond. Only one died. It floats while the gambusia continue to sleep on the bottom.
Big Guy was out of town when the gambusia died. That gave me plenty of time to restock with feeder goldfish. They are my go-to fish--cramped together in aquariums earmarked for tiny starter fish bowls belonging to proud children who will forget them after a day and go back to whining for a puppy. (The dead fish, one week later, being proof they aren't ready for a puppy.)
I don't over think where to procure feeder goldfish. Neither do I expect most of them to survive very long. On this day, I went to the Wal-Mart on St. Charles Rock Road. This store at this location reminds me of feeder goldfish. It serves a part of St. Louis where success is measured in touchable, feel-able steps like keeping your kid in high school, planning a summer trip to Six Flags and throwing a few tomatoes in the ground and hoping it's not too early.
I'm not always comfortable at this Wal-Mart. I don't like how the security guard so visibly patrols the parking lot in his car. And the cars in the parking lot bear wear, lots of wear. Even before I park and enter the store, I worry--what if a ragamuffin car backs into my car and the driver doesn't have insurance?
On that day, my thinking felt wrong and dripped with a smattering of racism. Then intentional listening stepped in to change me.
I have tried hard this year to be fully engaged in the conversations that I have--even in the polite back and forth with strangers. As I approached the fish tanks at the back of the Wal-Mart, I noticed the young man stocking the tanks. I didn't see a person--I saw cornrowed-hair and slouching khaki pants with ravel-edged pockets. I felt relief that he was there, and I didn't have to find someone to scoop 38-cent fish.
The worker talked fish as he scooped. I wanted about 20 of them. I said, "You know a lot about fish." He answered, "It's been three years and I'm still learning."
And with those words, for the very first time, I saw him. This person likes the fish; he is a learner and for three years, he has been learning about fish.
Intentional listening took me outside myself and, for a moment, I met someone I didn't know. I bought 25 feeder goldfish and turned them loose in the pond. Only one died. It floats while the gambusia continue to sleep on the bottom.
Friday, April 11, 2014
Spring Clean
I want to live in a flat world that ends with an edge. With one push of a Swiffler, I want the dust, dirt, bug carcasses, pet hair and bunched up stiff tissues to swoosh over an edge and into another world.
This week, I am spring-cleaning. I've cleared out three closets, two bathrooms and half of a bedroom. I have a lot of house left to go. The right sides, left sides, front sides, back sides and bottoms of most of what fills my home no longer amuse me with cuteness, usefulness, whimsy or eclectic slant.
If I could find a white towel, I would raise it in surrender. If Big Guy journeys on a long trip, I will hire a bulldozer and shove the entire house with contents across the street into the yard of the house recently sold for taxes on the courthouse steps. My junk can join the junk that is already there.
Freed of the responsibility, I will start over with a very small tent. I have the summer to think through a better plan--one that springs me free of dust and clutter.
This week, I am spring-cleaning. I've cleared out three closets, two bathrooms and half of a bedroom. I have a lot of house left to go. The right sides, left sides, front sides, back sides and bottoms of most of what fills my home no longer amuse me with cuteness, usefulness, whimsy or eclectic slant.
If I could find a white towel, I would raise it in surrender. If Big Guy journeys on a long trip, I will hire a bulldozer and shove the entire house with contents across the street into the yard of the house recently sold for taxes on the courthouse steps. My junk can join the junk that is already there.
Freed of the responsibility, I will start over with a very small tent. I have the summer to think through a better plan--one that springs me free of dust and clutter.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
The Guy Who Always Walked His Dog
The world fit Bob poorly. I knew him--everyone knew him--as the guy who always walked his dog. Bob didn't seem to do much else. A neatly dressed, tall and slender man, Bob 'talked dogs' to a few dog lovers. But most of us, including me, viewed him as a silent, predictable presence in our neighborhood.
Until today, I didn't know where Bob lived. But someone pointed me toward his house. As I drew closer, it was easy to spot. Two cuttings of fresh flowers and a stuffed dog toy were tied around the mailbox post.
One week ago, as I discovered today, Bob shot and killed himself. He left a note in the mailbox of a kind and gentle neighbor. It didn't take long for her to figure out what he'd done. He also left a five-page letter specifying where his things should go and naming whom he hoped would take in his dog Walter. And he washed the car in his driveway--one he bought five years ago, never registered and never drove.
With Bob gone, I know more about him. He was 59 years old. Five years ago, he lost his job with the water department. His house was in foreclosure and the electric power was turned off. No one in the neighborhood knew that Bob barely existed. And he wouldn't take help from his siblings. They weren't close, it is said.
The dog lover who told me about Bob grieves for him. She said she wished she'd known--she would have paid a bill for him. But Bob needed a job, one that would let him keep to himself and give him time to walk Walter. And he may have needed treatment for whatever about him made him keep his distance. But jobs, of any type, when you are 59 years old are difficult to come by. And health insurance, access to doctors or a willingness to even speak to one were probably well out of Bob's mental or financial reach.
Our loosely woven safety net of social services might have helped Bob. But in their kindness and efficiency, they would have wanted conversations with him. And Bob only talked about Walter.
Bob picked up a loaded gun, took aim and accomplished his goal. He kept his privacy and our neighborhood lost a good guy who walked his dog all the time.
And at www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com: I stare at her intently, dreading the answer, yet compelled to ask, "Did you eat your babies?"
Until today, I didn't know where Bob lived. But someone pointed me toward his house. As I drew closer, it was easy to spot. Two cuttings of fresh flowers and a stuffed dog toy were tied around the mailbox post.
One week ago, as I discovered today, Bob shot and killed himself. He left a note in the mailbox of a kind and gentle neighbor. It didn't take long for her to figure out what he'd done. He also left a five-page letter specifying where his things should go and naming whom he hoped would take in his dog Walter. And he washed the car in his driveway--one he bought five years ago, never registered and never drove.
With Bob gone, I know more about him. He was 59 years old. Five years ago, he lost his job with the water department. His house was in foreclosure and the electric power was turned off. No one in the neighborhood knew that Bob barely existed. And he wouldn't take help from his siblings. They weren't close, it is said.
The dog lover who told me about Bob grieves for him. She said she wished she'd known--she would have paid a bill for him. But Bob needed a job, one that would let him keep to himself and give him time to walk Walter. And he may have needed treatment for whatever about him made him keep his distance. But jobs, of any type, when you are 59 years old are difficult to come by. And health insurance, access to doctors or a willingness to even speak to one were probably well out of Bob's mental or financial reach.
Our loosely woven safety net of social services might have helped Bob. But in their kindness and efficiency, they would have wanted conversations with him. And Bob only talked about Walter.
Bob picked up a loaded gun, took aim and accomplished his goal. He kept his privacy and our neighborhood lost a good guy who walked his dog all the time.
And at www.mosquitonotes.blogspot.com: I stare at her intently, dreading the answer, yet compelled to ask, "Did you eat your babies?"
Monday, April 7, 2014
Love Digs Deep
Big Guy's love for me runs deep. I have a hole in my front yard to prove it.
It all starts with mosquito-fish. Two of them, each no bigger than one-half inch in length, rode in a water-filled plastic bottle (aka a recyclable water bottle) for five days as I traveled from Phinizy Swamp in Georgia to St. Louis, Mo. From there, I moved the critters to a square jar on my bedroom nightstand.
However, much as we are promised a mansion in heaven, these fish are in line for better digs. And they don't have to die to get there. Big Guy has constructed a front yard pond. It's roughly the circumference of a kiddie pool, though oddly shaped, and about 16 inches deep. To pay their rent, I expect the mosquito-fish to eat lots of mosquito-larvae and birth lots of fish babies so there's even more fish to eat more mosquitoes.
As we (meaning Big Guy) prepared the pond, we unearthed tree roots, bathroom tile scraps, night-crawlers and the other mish-mash that makes yard soil so unique. I figured out why bad guys dig shallow graves--digging is hard work and they don't love whomever they are dumping. As the day slipped by, I realized that my mosquito-fish, content with 10 ounces of water in a water bottle, would do o.k. in a five-inch deep plastic bucket or even released into the larger, turtle filled pond a few streets away. But when I get fixated on an idea, no matter how odd, Big Guy does his level best to make my vision come true. He is a deep digger; he loves me, and that's why my fish are moving on up.
So back to that mansion in heaven, I hope I am charged with a task far finer than reproducing by the hundreds and eating mosquito larvae. What I'd really like, now and for infinity and for forever, is to spend my time taking care of Big Guy.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Angelina, I Heard You
I do small things to grab attention.
For example, at Girl Scout day camp I ripped off my t-shirt and threw it on the ground. Two factors in my defense--a wasp crept underneath my shirt and it was very hot.
Another example, also a Girl Scout one, I tried to squat and pee in a cup. Totally missed, drenching one jean leg and one boot with a fresh stream of urine. Again, two factors--I really had to go and the horse-riding facility only offered a stall, as its real stall wasn't working.
So I'm not one to judge. But, Angelina irradiated herself for FloNotes. I found out when Big Guy and I invited Brad and Angelina to come visit one evening. First, they said no. Then, they relented, explaining that Angelina was radioactive. So while they weren't willing to subject strangers to radiation, they would come to our house.
I said fine. After all, I wanted to see Angelina glow. Much to my disappointment, no visible glow. She had swallowed a tiny radioactive pill to kill a naughty thyroid (message to self, don't cross Angelina). The physicians cautioned her--you're hot, for about a week. That means that after 25 years of marriage, Brad had a hot woman, a really hot woman for one week, and he was sleeping in the guest room.
Angelina warned us to keep our distance as we drank wine, played Password and drank wine. Then we played cards and drank wine. We switched from wine to ice cream drumsticks--except for Brad who ate pistachios with their greenish hue, perhaps longing for untouchable Angelina. I clinched fourth place at cards, winkin,' blinkin' and nod figured into a Password victory while no one knew that an office casserole is a conglomeration.
Mostly I forgot about Angelina's radioactive glow. I remember she said--"now this is FloNotes-worthy." And we discussed, or rather I brought up, the amount of radioactive waste Angelina was shedding into her neighborhood's sewer system. Her neighborhood squabbles constantly. If it knew Angelina was glowing, someone would compel her to log each time she flushes and keep details on any clean-up. Her plea for FloNotes to return is the sort of news that grabs attention.
For example, at Girl Scout day camp I ripped off my t-shirt and threw it on the ground. Two factors in my defense--a wasp crept underneath my shirt and it was very hot.
Another example, also a Girl Scout one, I tried to squat and pee in a cup. Totally missed, drenching one jean leg and one boot with a fresh stream of urine. Again, two factors--I really had to go and the horse-riding facility only offered a stall, as its real stall wasn't working.
So I'm not one to judge. But, Angelina irradiated herself for FloNotes. I found out when Big Guy and I invited Brad and Angelina to come visit one evening. First, they said no. Then, they relented, explaining that Angelina was radioactive. So while they weren't willing to subject strangers to radiation, they would come to our house.
I said fine. After all, I wanted to see Angelina glow. Much to my disappointment, no visible glow. She had swallowed a tiny radioactive pill to kill a naughty thyroid (message to self, don't cross Angelina). The physicians cautioned her--you're hot, for about a week. That means that after 25 years of marriage, Brad had a hot woman, a really hot woman for one week, and he was sleeping in the guest room.
Angelina warned us to keep our distance as we drank wine, played Password and drank wine. Then we played cards and drank wine. We switched from wine to ice cream drumsticks--except for Brad who ate pistachios with their greenish hue, perhaps longing for untouchable Angelina. I clinched fourth place at cards, winkin,' blinkin' and nod figured into a Password victory while no one knew that an office casserole is a conglomeration.
Mostly I forgot about Angelina's radioactive glow. I remember she said--"now this is FloNotes-worthy." And we discussed, or rather I brought up, the amount of radioactive waste Angelina was shedding into her neighborhood's sewer system. Her neighborhood squabbles constantly. If it knew Angelina was glowing, someone would compel her to log each time she flushes and keep details on any clean-up. Her plea for FloNotes to return is the sort of news that grabs attention.
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